


Asunder

by celestialskiff



Series: Where Your Bones Belong [2]
Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Age Play, BDSM, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, Daddy Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-11-30 01:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/693610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celestialskiff/pseuds/celestialskiff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU from The Gift. Angel has given Spike ten rules to follow, but Spike's having a lot of trouble sticking to them.  Warnings for BDSM, Daddy Kink, age play, references to self-harm and violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Florence, 1874_

“This isn't bloody poker,” Spike says, pushing the cards across the table. They're sitting at the window, him across from Angelus. The table in front of them is lit only with starlight, and the stars are faint and hidden by smog and clouds. Their vision compensates for the dimness, and they can make out the numbers and suits. 

The rest of the room is dark, too, and in the darkness there comes the faint sound of a human, panting. Spike can smell her: she's young, menstruating for the first time, soft and delicious. They're saving her for later. 

Angelus looks back at him, coolly, cards small in his big hands. “No?” 

“It's not. I tried playing it... I tried playing by your bloody rules, at a card table, with some other vampires, and they fucking laughed at me...”

“Enough, boy. Is that any way to speak to me?” 

“What do you mean?”

“You don't swear.” The voice is even, but somehow dangerous. Spike can hear the human's breath quicken, but she needn't worry. Angelus isn't going for her throat just now. 

“You swear,” Spike says, flicking through the cards mutinously. 

“I'm a grown-up.”

He can't say anything to that, because Angelus will laugh at any response, even though they're all true: he IS a grown-up, and it ISN'T fair. 

“They laughed at me,” Spike says instead. “Because they said I was playing whist. You told me it was poker.” 

“I'm sorry, little one,” Angelus says, in a voice that isn't sorry at all. “I didn't mean to make the nasty vampires last at you. Whist is a much more suitable game for someone like you. And it's much more fun, too.” 

“What do you mean, someone like me? Old ladies play whist, they said.” Spike nibbled at his thumb. 

“Well, you're not an old lady, are you, sweetheart? But sometimes you need special consideration.” 

Spike hates the way he says that, the syrupy tone, completely patronising him. He'd do anything to make Angelus treat him like an adult. Except he kicks at the table leg crossly, and fiddles with his cards, and he hopes if he's bad enough Angelus will spank him and put him to bed, and he doesn't know how to make himself stop hoping that. 

He slides his thumb into his mouth. Doing that in front of Angelus simultaneously makes him feel open and raw and lost, and like he's being looked after completely, contained completely. He says, “Well, hearts are trumps.” 

Angelus puts down a card. “Don't talk with your mouth full,” he says mildly. 

_Sunnydale, 2001_

**1\. Wear the pyjamas I gave to you. Sleep with your blanket. Every time you rest.**

He got back in daylight. He endured the run from car to crypt, and stood in the dark. He felt dizzy, and like he had no skin. It was easy to follow the first rule, tug the soft pyjamas on and find the special blanket in a remote corner of the crypt. 

He curled up small, face hidden, thumb in his mouth, blanket pressed against his lip. He fell asleep at once, and completely. 

The second day, Dawn slunk into his crypt before school started, just as he was finishing up his call with Angel. He had a quick moment of panic—Was everything hidden?—before he was able to look at her properly. 

“You should be in school,” he said. She was wearing a light dusting of make-up, not properly smoothed in, and neat clothes. Her bag was resting on one shoulder. She shifted awkwardly from foot to foot. 

“I know. Can I stay here?”

“What is it this time?”

“Math test. I'll fail. And I couldn't sleep last night, and I don't want to go to gym, and...” 

There was a tremor in her voice he didn't know how to handle. “You can stay, pet. Keep quiet about it, yeah? If your witches catch you here, I'm in big trouble.” 

“I wouldn't tell them. Come on, Spike. I'd be in big trouble too.” 

“I'd be in even bigger trouble. Aiding and abetting. So keep quiet.”

“I promise.” She looked relieved, different. She went over to his couch, abandoning her bag. She seemed so pleased to be given this reprieve he was glad, as ever, that he'd let her. 

She put the telly on. He sat down next to her, watching as she flicked through the channels. He didn't have many and the reception was pretty dodgy since that time he'd have a fight with a Stygian demon in here. “Ooh, cartoons,” Dawn said, pausing, and Spike was glad that following Angel's rules wasn't going to be a problem with her around. He'd been explicitly told he could watch cartoons, although he figured Angel meant _Tom and Jerry_ not _South Park_. 

“I might go to sleep, pet: it's night for me.”

“I know. Don't snore.” She smiled over at him. 

“I can't snore. I don't breathe.” 

“Sure. You believe that,” Dawn said. She drew her knees up to her chest, hugging herself. She looked very small sitting there. She picked up a strand of her long hair and wound it round a finger. He watched as she ran the strand over her nose and mouth, slowly, over and over. It made him remember, acutely, Drusilla making just that gesture when she was sad or tired. 

He wanted to protect Dawn, suddenly, urgently. He wanted to go out and kill something and have that make her happy, have that make everything better. But it wouldn't, so he just sat next to her, watching telly, and gradually drifted off to sleep. 

**2\. Ingest two pints of pig's blood every 24 hours.  
3\. Buy a baby's bottle as soon as you can (by Monday evening at the latest) and drink at least one pint of blood from it. **

He got to the butcher just as it was closing. He supposed most butchers didn't keep such a ready supply of blood: the ones in Sunnydale must either realise it was mostly purchased by hungry demons and vampires, or think that the residents of the town made a hell of a lot of blood sausage. And Spike didn't think Americans went in for blood sausage much. 

The fluorescent light made him uncomfortable, itchy, his eyes sore, but it wasn't a vampire thing: he'd noticed some humans had a similar reaction. He wound his arms around his chest, waiting, and couldn't believe how many dollars he had to fork over for six pints of blood, especially when he wouldn't want to drink them. 

There was a Codger demon, face poorly disguised by a hat and sunglasses, in the queue behind him. He smiled at Spike in the most friendly way something with that many odd-angled teeth could, and bought two pounds of chicken livers. From the way he was looking into the bag, Spike was pretty sure he was going to start eating them right away, and his stomach turned. 

In the street, he gulped in night air, hoping to cleanse his lungs and stomach of the scent of meat and the idea of a raw chicken liver between his teeth. It didn't help much. 

His next purchase was even more difficult, and he kind of wished he'd done it before he bought the blood, because it was going to be even worse to look for baby supplies while clutching a brown paper bag full of gore. 

The light in the drug store was pretty much as bad as in the butcher. He drew his coat more tightly around himself. No one could look good in this light, not even Buffy. Her name sent a tremor though him and another wave of nausea, and he marched determinedly towards the baby supplies section. His willpower wouldn't last long. 

A voice in his head reminded him he could always ignore Angel's request, but, for now, he managed to squash that voice. 

Hugging his blood to himself, he searched through the racks of baby food, teething rings, sippy-cups and pacifiers until he saw the rows of baby's bottles. There was a lot of choice, and he didn't really feel qualified to make a decision about this. The bottles looked different from before... 

He had a sudden powerful memory of Angelus feeding him blood from a large glass bottle, rubber nipple in his mouth, his hands bound in front of him, his head in Angelus's lap. Candle-light flickering on the walls. That was the way to do it. Really, if Angel wanted him to drink from a bottle, he could bloody deal with it himself. 

He picked one that said it was for 18 months or over, since he was definitely over 18 months. He meant to grab it and run to the cashier, but he found his eyes drawn to the other things, the bright cups, the garish pacifiers. There was something weirdly soothing about looking at them. If he bought himself a pacifier off his own bat, that would be it, he couldn't sink any lower, and there would be something comforting in that, in knowing he couldn't get any worse. 

He didn't, though, he just brought the bottle to the counter, and was relieved to be able to get out of the store and on his way home. 

He didn't go out again, that night. He didn't kill anything. He filled his usual mug, and was horrified to realise that it contained less than half a pint of blood. There was no way he could ever drink two. He heated in the microwave, and even the smell of it warming was unpleasant. 

It tasted bitter, reminding him again of sties and poverty and shit, and underneath the pig-taste there was the awful tang of whatever they used to stop it clotting. He put on an episode of _Dawson's Creek_ (bloody thing was rated PG—Angel couldn't argue with that) and settled down on the couch with his blanket. Unfortunately, Joey and Dawson did little to distract him from the taste, and he'd barely managed half of it before it got cold. 

He tried again, with the bottle. 

The nipple was too small to feel like his thumb, and the plastic tasted like factories and disinfectant, and it was hard to get the blood to flow—and then, suddenly, it was better. It wasn't a lot better, but sucking on the bottle was more like sucking from a neck than sipping out of a mug, and he didn't mind the feeling of the nipple in his mouth so much now: he liked having things in his mouth, and moving his lips around it was comforting, like sucking his thumb. The blood seemed to go further back in his mouth, too, so he couldn't taste it so much. 

He shut his eyes, and leant back against the sofa cushions, angling the bottle above his mouth. It was definitely humiliating, sitting here by himself, feeding from a plastic bottle, but it also helped. He indulged in imagining Angel here, beside him, holding the bottle, an arm around his shoulder. He reached for his blanket and found a soft corner to stroke between his fingers. “Daddy,” he murmured longingly, around the teat. 

Then he sat up and threw the bottle across the room. Sod this, and sod everything. He was a feared vampire. He wasn't this fucking broken. He didn't need his fucking Daddy. The room swam up and went black against his eyes. 

Later (it was hard to tell how much), he found himself crouched on the floor, his hands to his face. He was making noises—soft, choked noises—that weren't crying, but were close to crying, were raw and more open than crying. He rocked himself, burying his face in his hands, feeling lost, feeling like he really was as fucking broken as he'd feared. 

And, why shouldn't he be? He'd ruined anything. He'd let Buffy die. There wasn't anything left; he was a useless shell; he was an infant; he was lost. 

He didn't drink any more blood that night. 

**4\. Fight when necessary. Do not allow any other harm to come to your body.**

Dawn seemed smaller than ever, walking next to him in the dark. She was pale, and the bones in her face stood out more sharply than before. He wanted to ask her if she was eating, but he knew she'd hate that, and anyway, he was hardly a good example of maintaining adequate nutrition. 

“You should arrange these things so you can go home in the daylight,” Spike said. He'd picked her up from a friend's house, and that was an awkward experience he didn't really wish to repeat. 

“Don't you like being seen with me after dark? Worried all your cool friends might see you with a kid?” 

She was teasing, and at the same time, she wasn't. Spike snorted. “Just like to minimise the amount of beasties who might come wanting to take a chunk out of you, pet.” 

“It's different at night, now. Louder. And during the day. Stores are broken, and cars. It doesn't feel like the same town.” 

“I know.”

“When I was a kid, even though I knew about Buffy being the slayer and everything, I never really believed I was in danger. I never heard anything, and the house always seemed so safe. And Buffy got up every morning, and she always looked the same.”

He didn't really want to talk about Buffy. It was hard to know how he might react. He put his hands in his pockets, and made a soft, mumbling sound, which shouldn't encourage or discourage her. 

“Of course, that didn't happen to me. I can't really remember it; they're not really my memories. But they're in my head anyway.” She paused for so long Spike thought she might not speak again. He wanted to say something comforting, but found he couldn't. 

She continued, “I was always kind of jealous of her. She was so grown up and special, and Mom was always so worried about her.” Dawn bit her lip. “I guess I was too stupid to realise why Mom was so worried.” 

“Don't beat yourself up. Kids always think stupid things.”

“And it didn't really happen. I wasn't really there.” 

“That too,” Spike said. He didn't know if he should agree with her, but it was true, and she looked too small and too brave, walking next to him, for him to offer platitudes. Luckily, she didn't look like she was going to get all tearful. She looked a bit too calm, a bit distant, like she couldn't quite hear what she was saying, but that was better than dealing with her in tears. He couldn't even cope with his own feelings. 

He hadn't eaten, despite Angel's instructions. He felt a little floaty, and his senses weren't quite as acute as they sometimes were. But he thought he felt basically OK. 

He wasn't completely ready for it when the demon showed up, but he wasn't thrown off balance either. He angled himself between it and Dawn, and tried to gauge its feelings. It didn't seem particularly cheerful: it looked more like the kind of demon that wanted to eat the heart of a virgin than the kind you could gamble with. He could hear Dawn behind him, her racing pulse and quicker breath, but she wasn't screaming either. He didn't tell her to run, because she could always run into something worse. 

“Why don't you go on home, mate? If you don't attack, I don't have to kill you.” 

The demon said something in Fyarl. Spike could have figured it out if he'd tried hard enough, but it didn't sound like it was a friendly invitation to a drinks party, so he was ready to block it when it lunged for Dawn. 

It was strong, and had some pretty savage claws, and the sleeve of his coat ended up torn, and he had some pretty bad scratches on his face and neck. He could hear Dawn's pulse the whole time: fast, but steady and constant, and it seemed like that pulse kept him going, kept him winning, dictated the rhythm of the fight. 

He didn't kill it, but he got them away, and he limped up behind Dawn to her house. She was quiet, and he ached. At last, he asked her, “Are you OK?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. Her heart-rate was coming down. He knew he should still have adrenaline coursing through his body, but he just felt dizzy. He didn't think he was as strong as he'd been once. “You're not, though. You're hurt.” 

“I'll be fine.”

“I hate people getting hurt for me.”

“Some of us want to, all right, bit?” 

She shrugged, tugging at her long hair. “Thanks.” 

“You don't have to thank me.” 

They were at the house, now, thank Christ. He stopped at the tree where he'd waited for a glimpse of Buffy for hours and hours on many nights. She stopped too. 

“Go on in, now, pet. I'd rather not join the merry throng.” 

“We could watch TV.” She was hopeful. He could see she was lonely. 

He didn't know how to tell her no, but he knew he couldn't stand to go inside, either. “I'll see you tomorrow, I'm sure.” 

“Willow can clean up those cuts.” 

“I'm fine.” 

“They look really bad.”

“Look worse than they are. I'll be all healed by tomorrow. Vampire, remember?”

“Yeah.” 

She went in then, at last. He was glad, and then the pain he'd been ignoring while she was standing there came rushing up to greet him, a baying pack of hungry dogs. He was dizzy and weak and aching, and he limped home as fast as he could, not wanting to put himself in the way of any more fights. 

In his crypt, he heated up blood in the microwave and looked at it for a long time. 'It's just blood', he told himself. 'Drink it you, fucking idiot. You could have killed the demon if you'd been fed. As it was, it nearly got the girl.'

He looked at it for a long time, the red blood in the pale mug. He brought it to his lips again and again. He couldn't make it go past them, though, he couldn't make himself swallow, and he let the mug drop from his hand, pale china smashing on the hard floor, blood surrounding the shards and staining the ground. He looked at that for a while too, until it stopped looking like blood on the floor, and started looking like crowds of people, like boats on a lake, like mist on a beach. 

He sat on his couch and lit a cigarette. He smoked for a while, the nicotine soothing him slightly. And then, calmly, without passion or fear, he stubbed out the cigarette on his arm, and watched the smoke rise, smelt the soothing, familiar scent of ash. 

**5\. Cut down your smoking. It makes your blood taste unpleasant. Two cigarettes a day, maximum.**

On his own, he sometimes read books. He had a stack of paperbacks in a corner of the crypt, cheap ones published for English literature students, watermarked and warped and covered in splotches. They smelt musty. He flicked through them, not looking at them properly. They were mostly poetry, and the words were mostly words he already knew. 

You lost a lot of things when you were as old as he was. You lost the names of people you had once known, the taste of buttered toast, the smell of the sheets in your childhood bedroom, games you'd played, fights you'd had, jokes that had once made you laugh. Spike had lost a lot of things—the years between 1921 and 1938 were a complete mystery, for instance—but poetry was not one of the things he had lost. He had read the words too desperately as an adolescent, had immersed his mind too deeply for the words to go away. 

Often he wished they would. Petrarch's Laura tormented him when he tried to sleep, Donne's beloved had Buffy's face, and Marvell's coy mistress was always Dru. He couldn't think about Angel without hearing “Batter my heart, three person'd God” and he would wake in the morning with snatches of verse in his head, like seaweed cast on the beach by a high tide. 

The words often seemed wrong now, or faulty. They couldn't mean what they had once meant to him, and that made them hollow. But still, they nagged at him. He felt stalked by poetry, found that he couldn't forget, and so he sat, many wakeful afternoons, and read, and smoked, and read, and smoked. 

That afternoon, he didn't even notice he was doing it until he was through half of Wyatt, and he'd smoked almost a whole pack. His fingers were yellowed with nicotine and his mouth was bitter, and his head was full of words. There didn't seem much point in trying not to smoke after that, since he'd already broken the rules once. 

**6\. Get up promptly at sunset every evening. No lazing in bed.  
7\. Don't bite your fingernails.   
8\. Do not watch any TV unsuitable for little ones. No horror films, nothing rated over PG, mostly cartoons. **

He woke, as he often did, trembling, the room spinning around him. He seemed to see insects on the walls, and shadows, like those cast by candle-light, vast and shuddering, and he smelt rotting meat, and wax, and furniture polish. His stomach heaved. 

He sat up, head in his hands, and reached for his special blanket. He pressed it to his face, and held it there, and shook and shook. He was wearing Angel's pyjamas, and under the scent of his own skin and blood, he could make out the scent of Angel, ancient and powerful, and the blanket, too, smelt soothing and familiar, of cigarette smoke and leather. He shut his eyes, concentrating on those familiar scents, and the silence around him. There was no whispering; he heard no mice. Somewhere, distantly, there was a bird, a hoarse, croaking bird, not some pretty singing thing. He listened to it. 

When he opened his eyes again, the room had resumed its usual proportions. It was dark out, though barely, just approaching darkness, and he brought his knees up to his chest and wound his blanket around his hand. It was thin, small, meant for a baby, blue and soft and much worn. It was edged in satin. He'd had one for a shamefully long time as a human adult, and then, later, Angelus had told him not to be ashamed. 

He'd bought this one not long ago, alone, and ashamed once more. But not so ashamed he would deny himself pleasure: Angelus had taught him better than that. 

He burrowed in the blankets, wishing he could sleep again. He had nightmares when he slept, but they weren't as bad as waking up and being here. He kept dreaming that he was screaming, and when he woke there didn't seem much reason not to start. 

Distantly, like a tickle on his skin, he felt a human pulse coming towards him, and then it became less distorted and was two pulses, and the scent of humans, humans he knew. He buried the blanket under the sheets, and went upstairs. There was a broken mug of blood on his floor, and the armchair looked like it had been torn apart by a marauding demon or bear, but he thought perhaps he'd been responsible. He poured a glass of Jack D, sipped it, waiting. 

The witch always seemed nervous when she came in, not like he might be a threat, but like talking to him might lead to an awkward social occasion she wouldn't know how to deal with. He was pretty sure she could kill him though, if she wanted to, so he wasn't sure why she bothered to be anxious. 

She took in the broken crockery, the torn upholstery. “What happened?” 

“Going for the distressed look. Hear it's all the rage,” Spike said. But she wasn't looking at the crypt at all, she was looking at his face. He was aware, suddenly, that it hurt when he moved the muscles of his jaw, and that the welts on his back from Angel's treatment had not quite healed. They should have healed, and it was strange to feel the old wounds. 

“Dawn said you got in a fight. I didn't realise it was so bad. Are you OK? Do you need anything?”

Spike downed the rest of the glass. “What do you want, Red?” 

“Uh, just help with patrol. This town is...” But she stopped, unwilling to say what the town was. He wondered how long it would take her to decide she had to move. He didn't think she was stupid enough not to realise leaving was inevitable. The town was changed. 

“Yeah, I'll do what I can,” Spike said. 

Willow's mouth twisted. She looked at her hands, like she was trying to make herself to say something. Outside, he heard Xander's voice calling her and insulting him in the same breath. He could smell him too, musky and male where Willow's scent was disguised by vanilla perfume and apple shampoo. 

“Where do you want me?” Spike asked, and her face found his again, and she told him. 

It was a decent, honest spot of violence, and he enjoyed as much as he could enjoy anything. The humans didn't seem to feel the same way—he could hear the heightened pulses, their fear and desperation. It was distracting, and he wished they'd go away. They spoke to him and about him and about the town, but he couldn't focus on their words. There was black ringing his vision, and their voices were a distant hum. He could smell them and hear their bodies working, and, louder, he could hear the sound of their opponents, the noise of feet hitting earth, of liquids leaking out of skin. 

They barely made a dent in the population of vampires and demons that had overrun Sunnydale, but Spike fought until he was exhausted, and the air around him, at least, was quiet. They didn't speak about what had changed. He was glad they didn't try to speak about that. He would have heard Buffy's name if they'd mentioned her, and that would have been beyond what he could stand. 

When they left him, he was alone and aching in the graveyard, hearing the sounds of distant demons revelling, scenting blood and flames and booze. 

He didn't even wish that he felt some desire to join those demons. 

In the crypt, he flicked through old VHS tapes, looking for something he could watch. He had a fair bit of porn, and a selection of B-movies and comedies. There wasn't much here he could look at without breaking Angel's rules, and since he couldn't stand another night trying to find something bearable on the six fuzzy channels his TV managed to pick up, he stuck on an old Lucio Fulci film, because Angel had specifically forbade horror. 

Not that anyone could imagine any gore that Spike hadn't already seen. 

He settled down, biting the nail-polish off his nails, watching viscera and sipping JD. He couldn't sleep, and when at last he did sleep, it was so fitful he couldn't make himself even attempt to get up the next evening. 

**9\. Call me before you go to sleep. Every morning, without fail.**

“Angel.” 

“Hello, kid. Is that any way to greet your Daddy?” 

“Sorry, Da.” 

“Your voice is rough. You've been smoking.” 

“Yeah. A pack a day, at least.” 

“That's going to cost you. Clearly you don't have any self-control. We're going to have to deal with that.” 

“What are you going to do to me?”

“Hmm. I found these lovely nipple clamps in the back of my drawer. Quite forgotten I had them. Have I used clamps on you?”

“Not recently. But yeah, I'm sure you've used every possible thing that could hurt a person on me.” 

“I wouldn't count on that. Well, these have a chain between them, and they're the kind that get tighter if you pull on the chain. I'm going to tie your hands behind your back, and your bound hands to your ankles, just loosely. You could get out if you tried. I have some very nice rope, by the way, sweetheart, blue to match your eyes.”

“You're going so soft. Can't believe you're buying me things to match my eyes.”

“I just want you to be pretty. You're mine—I'm allowed to make you as pretty as I care to. I'll bind you loosely, then I'll get the nipple clamps and put one on your left nipple, and drag you to something. I haven't decided what yet, maybe the headboard of the bed, maybe something closer to the floor. I do like to have you kneeling on the floor. Then I'll string the chain through something solid, and put the clamp on your other nipple. You could get out like that, you see, because I won't do the ropes up so very tight, but every time you squirm the clamps will get tighter, and you won't want to move. So you'll be stuck, trying to make yourself pull free, not able to.” 

“What if I just stay still?”

“You'll never manage that, boy. You never have.”

“I could surprise you.” 

“I suppose you could. We're old enough to surprise each other again. Have you broken any other rules I should know about? I bought you lots of lovely toys, but I've had to put most of them away now.”

“Were the nipple clamps one of the things you bought? Cos I don't know if I want those.” 

“Of course not! I bought you things I knew you'd like, sweetheart. I bought you teddy-bears and collars and one of those little things you play computer games on, and a new cell-phone, and a lovely train set. And other things, lots of lovely things to keep you entertained, suitable for a little one like you. Except of course you've shown me you didn't earn them.” 

“One of those little things you play computer games on? Did you go into a shop and ask for that?” 

“No good can come of teasing me, boy. You know that.” 

“I dunno. You know what I like, even when I'm bad.” 

“I could just make you do my filing over the weekend. And my taxes.” 

“You'd never trust me with either of those things. Wait—you do taxes?” 

“I'm running a legitimate business here. You're much too little to understand.” 

“I'm not laughing, I'm just surprised. I never thought my daddy would be busy doing his taxes.” 

“Your daddy's a responsible citizen. That's why he tries so hard to look after you.”

“Yeah, I always knew you were stuffy and responsible. And boring.” 

“I'll ignore that. Have you been eating?” 

“I don't want to talk about it.” 

“I can see you're not going to have a good time when you get here. I will, though. I miss marking that pretty skin of yours.” 

“...”

“Are you hard, boy?”

“No. Are you?”

“Yes, I am. Poor baby, you're too little to even get an erection. Don't worry, Daddy will look after you. Daddy doesn't mind if you can't get hard.” 

“It's humiliating, Angel.”

“You're much too little to feel humiliated by that. It's normal for a little one not to be able to keep up with Daddy.”

“I'm not that little.” 

“Yes, you are. You sound grumpy. I think it's time for you to go to sleep.” 

“Don't sleep well.” 

“Poor kid. Want me to tell you a story?”

“OK.”

“Once upon a time there was a little girl who lived with her mother in the big forest, and her name was Little Red Riding Hood...”

“Oh bloody hell, I thought you were going to tell me a kinky story.” 

“And why would my little one want something like that? Well, one day Little Red Riding Hood found out that her grandmother was sick...”


	2. Chapter 2

_Florence, 1874_

The whore is on Angelus's arm, smelling of limes and brandy. He thinks he is going to rob Angelus later, and Angelus has not yet disabused him of the notion. He is broad-shoulder and sloe-eyed, his physique and colouring just the opposite of Spike's. His manner, too, is dutifully subservient, which Spike knows is all wrong. Angelus doesn't like duty at all: he prefers wilful disobedience. He likes to be obeyed, yes, but he likes to be obeyed because he is strong and powerful and knows how to cause pain. The whore doesn't know anything about that. The whore doesn't know anything. 

Angelus speaks to him in careful Italian. He picks the words precisely, and he pauses before he forms a sentence so the grammar will be perfect. His accent is terrible. Even Spike can tell that, and Spike only knows a word here and there, words he's picked up from girls whose throat he's about to rip out, or girls he's fucking, or demons from whom he wants a favour. The whore smiles and pretends he thinks Angelus is a native. If he were a better actor, that might be a good move. 

Spike's tied to the bed, and there's a wound on his chest. It's not a bad wound, but it looks worse than it is to the whore who's never seen what two vampires do to one another for fun. He's still thinking about robbing Angelus though, Spike can see it in his face. The bad Italian makes the whore think Angelus is slow of mind as well as of tongue. 

Before he leaves, Angelus kneels by Spike's bedside. He kisses Spike's forehead, and then his cheek, just above his lip. “Are you going to be all right, little lad? Left all alone?” His voice is as tender as his words, and there's nothing dangerous in his face.

“You could let me out,” Spike says. “You great greasy sod. My back hurts.” 

Angelus hits him hard enough to knock a tooth loose. The whore hisses. Spike tastes his own blood and grins. Angelus strokes his hair, gentle again, and says, “I'm sorry, sweetheart. You have to learn.” 

He bends and takes Spike's little blanket from beneath the bolster, the blanket knitted from soft wool and edged in silk, and tucks it under Spike's arm. He presses his thumb to Spike's lips and says, “We must get you one of those little dummies to suck when your hands are otherwise occupied. You miss having something in your mouth, don't you?” 

Spike doesn't say anything. He feels contained by the blanket under his arm, by Angelus's gaze, by his words. He feels safe, and the feeling remains, even when Angelus stands back up and looks away. Even when he hates him he can see how skilled Angelus is, how thoroughly he makes him his. 

Angelus takes the whore by the arm. If the boy notices the coldness of the grip, he doesn't comment. As he leaves the room, he looks at Spike with something very like pity, or even sympathy. Poor, stupid bastard, Spike thinks. 

_California, 2001_

**10\. Suck your thumb whenever you like.**

“That's not a proper rule,” Spike had said when Angel had dictated it to him. “Suck my thumb whenever I want? There's no way you can check if I do that.” 

“Well, see it as a guide, then. A general idea of good behaviour.” 

“I already do suck my thumb whenever I want,” Spike had replied. “You're the one who used to stop me. Take your thumb out, you used to say, it's not dignified.” 

“That was before I knew I couldn't make you a grown-up, no matter how hard I tried.” 

“Did you want me to be a grown-up?”

Angel's face had made an expression approximating a smile. “No. Not now, and not for a long time. I don't want you to be any more grown-up than you are.” 

He'd said something patronising, then, about Spike being his little boy, and Spike had pretended not to listen. And Spike had written out the rule, neatly, under the others, adding an extra swoop to the 'y' in 'your'. Angel was always praising his penmanship. He'd even got an award for it, once, when he was in school, and been given a boring book about flowers of the English woodland. 

In the car, now, driving to see Angel, Spike thought that perhaps he hadn't been completely honest when he'd told Angel he did suck his thumb whenever he wanted to. There were plenty of times when he couldn't—when he was around other people, when he was writing, when he was driving. At times like that, he'd tell himself he'd just tell himself he didn't _really_ want to suck his thumb. Sucking his thumb was inconvenient and humiliating, and he'd remind himself that he didn't want to bury his face in something soft or to be be told he was much too little to be in charge of anything as complicated as a car. 

He reached over to the passenger seat, picked up the bottle of Jack, and took a fiery sip. Angel hadn't told him not to drink. Angel hadn't even told him not to drink and drive. He was dizzy and drunk, and the wounds on his face hadn't healed and were making his eyes itch, but Angel had told him to come, and that was one order he wasn't going to disobey. 

*

When the streets started to seem familiar, he pulled in. 

Just close my eyes for a minute, Spike thought. Then I'll get out of the car. Just let my eyes shut... 

He was then aware that time had passed, and that his limbs felt loose and trembly, and that there were arms around him, sturdy, room-temperature arms cradling him against a broad chest. He could rest his head against the smooth place where a heart had once beaten. He could inhale the familiar scent. He knew where he was, and he didn't have to open his eyes. 

“Daddy,” he murmured, and if his limbs hadn't felt so treacherous he would have squirmed closer. 

Next, he was on a bed, and he felt a hand swatting against his thigh. “You sleeping, boy?”

Spike mumbled. He wanted to say, _No, I'm definitely not asleep, I'm completely coherent, you big pillock_ , but only a groan emerged. 

“You've not been feeding, have you?” He heard the sound of cloth moving, and felt the bed shift beside him. “Good thing your wounds can't get infected. You're such a mess.” 

There was smooth skin under his lips. Spike knew he was supposed to do something to it, but the urge was somehow distant. He licked. It tasted faintly salty. 

“Christ, kid, you're too much work. Are you so far gone you can't even remember to bite?” 

And then Angel slit his skin, the cold skin next to Spike's mouth, and Spike latched on to the wound, and sucked, and sucked, and sucked. The blurriness receded from his thoughts. The taste in his mouth was sharp and steadying, and clarity returned to his mind so rapidly it was almost disorienting. He felt a familiar stir of humiliation: here he was, nursing, but as he began to feel steadier and warmer his hand, which had been limp at Angel's side, found the edge of Angel's shirt and clung on. 

He kept sucking, unwilling to find out what Angel would do to him next. And he liked Angel letting him do this, stroking his back, running his fingers through Spike's hair. Now, even though he couldn't pretended to himself that he was unsure of what was going on, he didn't want anything other than this, and was unwilling to move in case something changed. He sucked, and Angel stroked his back, and they were still, in a silence more potent than any words. 

“All right, I'll get dizzy if you keep going,” Angel said at last, and disengaged his mouth. “I'll have to start drinking whole pigs to keep up with you.” Though he could have, he didn't push Spike away, but looked down at him, pressed against his chest. Spike looked back, but he was the one who got embarrassed first, and jerked away. 

He sat on the edge of the bed, aware for the first time that they were in Angel's familiar room. He wrapped his arms around himself, ducking his head, and felt small and weak and exposed. 

“I didn't realise my rules were so difficult,” Angel said. “Poor baby.” 

“They were stupid.” 

“No, I don't think so. I think they were just too hard for you to follow. Such a pity, too. I got you all sorts of things.” 

Spike felt kind of drunk, still. He didn't really remember the last half of his journey here. He felt small and drained of energy. He looked over at Angel, hoping Angel would decide to put him in bed, but not sure how to ask. In fact, Angel seemed willing, both to understand and to ease the process, and Spike barely noticed when he pulled him into his pyjama bottoms, or handed him his blanket, which Spike had had on the back seat of his car. Angel didn't stay with him, said he had things to do and his world didn't, in fact, revolve around needy vampires, but Spike didn't mind at all. In Angel's room, he felt safe, and for once sleep came quickly. 

Angel woke him the next morning with a baby's bottle full of blood. Spike was tired and sore and tempted to push it away, but Angel pressed it firmly against his lips, and Spike opened up. When he tasted it, he was shocked. 

“I know, boy, it's human,” Angel said. “It'll help your face heal.” 

It was warm, too. Spike took suckled softly, not arguing, watching Angel's face. He could taste plastic, faintly, and an anticoagulant, so it wasn't fresh blood, but aside from Angel it was the best thing he had tasted in years. 

“I know people,” Angel said by way of explanation, and seemed a bit smug about knowing people, who, presumably, could provide him with human blood. “Only drink human when _I_ give it to you, though.” 

Spike rolled his eyes. It wasn't like he could get it anywhere else. 

Angel jerked the nipple from his lips. “Well?”

“Yes, daddy. Though it's not like I could get my hands on it.” 

“Someone else might offer you blood. You're not allowed to drink that,” Angel said. He slid the teat back between Spike's lips, so Spike couldn't ask who else might possibly want to offer him human blood. 

He felt warm and overly full once he'd finished the bottle. He flopped back against the pillows, looking up at Angel. It was still dark out. Spike had lost track of the days, and he wondered if he'd slept through all of Saturday. He hoped they were OK in Sunnydale, but the hope felt removed from him now, at this moment, lying in bed. He rooted among the sheets and found his blanket again, tangled from where he'd slept on it. He picked it up and ran a silky edge over the corner of his mouth. 

Angel watched him, bottom lip caught between his teeth. He looked like he was trapped between Angel the overworked saviour and bureaucrat and Angel the feared vampire. Spike squirmed slightly, looking at him, knowing which of those he wanted. 

He held the blanket childishly to his face, and said, like he was frightened, “So, daddy, what are you going to do to me?” 

“Do to you? Sweetheart, are you afraid the big scary vampire's going to do something nasty to you?”

Spike shrugged. 

“I never do anything nasty to you. I only do what I think is the very best for you,” Angel said, tenderly brushing Spike's hair back from his face. 

“Not stupid enough to believe that for a minute, mate.” 

Angel lifted Spike's hand from the bedspread and hit it once, swiftly, with enough force to make Spike feel like his tendons were being twisted out of place.

Spike corrected himself. “Daddy,” he said. 

“That's right. You may only address me as 'daddy' unless I tell you otherwise.” 

Spike nuzzled at his blanket. “What if we're around other people?”

“Trust me. I'll tell you what to do.” Angel removed the blanket from Spike's hands and laid it gently on his bedside table. “And now I'm telling you to get out of bed, and get dressed in the clothes I've put out for you.” 

The clothes were on a chair: a black t-shirt, and black sweatpants with little red rockets embroidered on cuffs and waist band, and one larger rocket on one thigh. They looked like something a ten-year-old would wear. 

“Sweatpants?” Spike said. “Really?”

“They're so practical.” 

“They've got little spaceships on them.” 

“I know, aren't they adorable?” Angel said. “I bought them for you specially.” 

Over the years, Spike had learnt that you could, in fact, argue with Angel when he was feeling vindictive and angry, but there was absolutely no point in arguing with him when he was being patronising. Spike pulled the sweatpants on over the hideous pair of white briefs Angel had thoughtfully provided. 

“What now, Daddy?” Spike said, turning around so Angel could look him over. Dressed, he felt more exposed than he had been when naked. The expression 'walking wounded' came to his mind. He felt raw as a wound all over, like he'd been flayed. 

“Well, I've got some work to do, so you're going to have to keep yourself busy while I do that. Think you can manage?”

“Yeah...” 

“I'll help. Come with me,” Angel said, and held out his hand. Spike couldn't remember the last time he'd held Angel's hand, if ever, and it felt weird, the smooth, cool skin gripping his. Angel tugged him out of the room and down a flight of stairs. The hotel was quiet, the air still: Spike thought it must be the middle of the night, the humans safely tucked up in bed. 

Angel's office had a table dense with paperwork and walls covered with weapons. He let go of Spike's hand, and Spike stood in the doorway, watching, while Angel went to the desk and pulled two shopping bags out from under it. He examined their contents for a moment, and said, “I was going to give you lots of presents, kid, but I think you're much too little to handle all that. I need to keep you busy, though, so I'll give you a few things to play with.” 

He handed Spike a teddy-bear and a box from Nintendo which proudly proclaimed it contained a Gameboy advance. The teddy-bear was wearing a leather jacket and had earrings and a Mohawk. It wasn't much bigger than Spike's hand and had a slightly wicked expression. Spike held it and the box and looked over at Angel. 

“Say 'thank you',” Angel said. 

“Thank you, Daddy,” Spike replied dutifully. Angel had given him presents before, but never real toys that could be given to real kids. Usually his presents consisted of leather collars or things with which he could hit Spike. Spike wasn't sure what to make of it. 

“Well, sit down,” Angel said, and sat himself on the only chair. Spike was still tired and sore, and he would've sunk gladly to the ground, but he looked at Angel for confirmation. 

“Sit by my feet.” 

Spike settled at Angel's legs and slowly opened the box. He felt Angel's hand pat his hair vaguely, and then Angel appeared to turn his mind to his paperwork. Spike sat the teddy-bear down by his own feet, and got out the Gameboy. 

He hadn't expected to enjoy it, but Angel had bought him some sort of racing game, and as soon as he worked out the stupid little buttons he found himself enthralled. It seemed to use the parts of his brain that usually made him anxious and depressed and made them focus instead on the minutiae of the game. It was very relaxing. Also, he found he was good at it, and he liked being good at things. 

“Aren't you being good and quiet,” Angel said once, patting his head, but mostly there was silence between them. 

After finishing another level, Spike found his hand aching and put the Gameboy down. He slid his thumb into his mouth and sucked it softly, winding his fingers over his nose. His mind was free again suddenly, and too many thoughts arrived and washed over him. People were dead. He had failed. And he was naked, raw and alone, and he couldn't defend himself. He only had Angel, and he _hated_ Angel. 

He'd seen pain before. He'd seen real pain. This seemed like nothing compared to that, and he hated himself for not being able to bear it, and even knowing that, he still wanted to cry. He reached out for the bear instead, running his fingers through the little red Mohawk. He absolutely did not want a teddy-bear, but as bears went, this was a pretty good one. He fiddled with the leather jacket and tweaked the earrings. It was sort of cute, but it wasn't what he needed. 

He tipped his head back to rest against Angel's knee. “Daddy,” he said, lisping around his thumb. “I want my blanket.” Angel didn't have to know how badly he did want his blanket. Angel could just think that if he was going to treat him like a toddler, Spike was bloody well acting the part. 

He heard Angel sigh, and then there was a hand in his hair. “Oh dear, have I been ignoring you, little lad?”

“Yeah. You've been neglecting me.” 

Angel caught him under the armpits and pulled him onto his lap. The grip under his arms pinched but Spike didn't complain. 

Spike noticed that Angel was hard, cock pressing against Spike's bum. This hadn't made him hard, and he'd forgotten it could have that affect on Angel. He might have been hard now, too, a year ago. He wriggled against Angel, feeling the cock jerk, and nestled his head into Angel's shoulder. 

“Did you like your presents?” 

“Yes,” Spike said, and felt Angel gently removed the thumb from his mouth. “Yes,” he said again, squirming slightly to show his irritation, “I was really good at it. I won lots of levels.”

“Aren't you clever.” Angel stroked his cheek. 

“Very,” Spike agreed. He nuzzled into Angel's neck, smelling still blood and clean skin. There was a scar here, faint and ragged, skin torn and marked by a vampire even older than Angel. Without thinking, Spike licked it. Angel twitched, surprised by the tongue on the scar, and then reached up and tugged the hair at the base of Spike's neck, pulling his face away. 

“Upstairs, boy, and wait for me,” Angel said. Spike didn't move for a moment, and Angel tipped him off his lap, saying, “On with you.” 

Spike was tempted to disobey him. He didn't want to leave Angel, and part of him wanted to rebel at Angel's commands. Even if he didn't want to explore the hotel, he should anyway just for the principal of the thing. But inside him there was another, stronger part which craved the comfort of obedience. As much as he hated it, there was a part of him that wanted to be Angel's good little boy. It was the craven part, the part that was so desperately broken, that he had longed to destroy. 

In Angel's room, he put his Gameboy and his new teddy-bear on the bedside locker, and curled up on his side. It seemed to him like at this time of night he should be full of energy, but instead he felt a familiar, woozy tiredness. He pulled his special blanket out from under the bed-covers and rubbed a silky corner between his fingers. He slid his thumb into his mouth and ran the blanket over his nose and lip. 

He felt very young and small. He'd been vulnerable all week, he'd been vulnerable for months, he felt like maybe he'd been raw and open and so _young_ for all of his long and weary unlife, but right now he felt more acutely new and small than was bearable. He curled up, making his body as little as he could, as if he wasn't here on this bed. He told himself he wasn't Spike, he wasn't even William, none of this had happened, he had never let the girl die, he had never opened himself up to Angel's eyes and hands again, he wasn't weak and broken, he was simply new and he could learn to be strong and brave and whole. He couldn't live with this, with what he was now and what he had been, he just couldn't... 

Angel came in and stood for a long time at the foot of the bed. Spike didn't open his eyes. He smelt Angel's familiar scent, and wrapped his arms tighter around himself, and rocked himself, and tried not to smell or hear or feel, to pretend the evening had never happened, that he wasn't really here dressed as Angel's toddler. 

“Poor baby,” Angel said. “Poor little boy.” 

He tugged the bottom half of Spike's clothes off, leaving him with an exposed arse and limp cock and his t-shirt tangled around his slender waist. Angel pushed him over onto his belly, and gripped Spike's ankles in his hands. He tugged them until Spike was spread out, open on the bed, buttocks apart, hands caught under his torso. He tugged until Spike felt open. 

Spike lay where he had been put, letting Angel do what he wanted. 

“Do you know what you need?”

Spike could barely understand the question. He needed, he needed, he needed. He was raw. He was Angel's. Angel could bring him here with whispered instructions, ugly clothes and video games. Angel could do anything to him. Angel was the only one who knew what he needed. Spike licked his lip, and answered Angel in two simple syllables, “Daddy.” 

Angel ran his fingers down Spike's backbone. Angel's nails could cut skin, but Angel's touch was now only a tickle, a gentle reminder of his strength. He ran his fingers over the knots in Spike's spine, over the tense muscles and taut skin. He massaged Spike with hands that were first hard then gentle; practised hands, hands that knew the musculature of the body, could take it apart and put it back together again. Hands that had opened corpses and fucked whores dry and painted portraits of sleeping girls. Hands that now were infinitely, painfully gentle. 

He touched Spike with a delicacy he usually reserved for beautiful women. He raised his t-shirt so he could kiss his shoulder-blades, and then tucked it back down. His fingers spanned over Spike's skin until Spike felt like he was melting into the bed. He licked the small of Spike's back, he tongued the soft down that grew there, he traced hands over the twin cheeks of Spike's arse, he dipped his mouth between and licked, and licked. 

Spike didn't get aroused. He just lay, spread out on the bed, relaxed and not relaxed. This was soft and tender: everything his raw, lost body needed, but it was also torturous. He felt split open but he wanted to be torn apart. He wanted to be rent asunder by this vampire's jaws. His skin needed to relearn its own limits. His muscles needed to tense with pain so that they could let go. 

When Angel finally hit him, Spike could have cried with relief. It was brief, it was only enough to sting, it was his Daddy reminding him that he was in charge, that he was bigger and stronger and Spike was only little. It was brief, but it was enough. 

Skin met skin and the sound was sudden in the quiet room. It wasn't tender; it couldn't be tender. It was being hit. And Spike's bones forgot to fit together, his nerves sent signals in the wrong directions, and he was gone.


End file.
